


Through These Walls

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Bunker Sex, Coda, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e18 The Memory Remains, Top Dean, Voyeurism, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: When Ketch put a bug in the bunker, he was looking for usable intel. What he got? Well, that is something else entirely.





	Through These Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DownTheRabbitHole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownTheRabbitHole/gifts).



> So, even if this prompt had not been given to me directly by the lovely Kylie, I'm not sure I would have been able to resist writing this. A bug in the bunker? Ooohhh boy, Ketch. _Buckle. Up._
> 
> Beta'd by my darlings Jen and Tal. Thank you ❤️
> 
> Update: Amanda fixed my italics problem because she is a hero like that. I can breathe again. Goddamn coding... *grumbles*
> 
> Title from Phil Collin's song of the same name (except I changed it to "through" because I just can't with "thru.")

_“So now we're reporting to low rent Christian Bale? Seriously? I don't like that guy. He creeps me out. And he rides the oldest, worst, most unreliable bike.”_

Ketch hears a small laugh from Sam, then there’s a pause, and he imagines the brothers are both sipping their beer. 

He doesn’t care what they think of him, not really, but as Sam agrees with Dean and they begin to discuss the things they dislike about him, he can’t help but narrow his eyes and grip the china handle of his tea cup that little bit more tightly. They do grate on him. He is, frankly, relieved that Dr. Hess is stepping in and changing tactics. Mick had lost his edge. Ketch would blame the Winchesters but that concedes too much credit. Mick had always been weak; they simply exploited that. 

Ketch sips his tea and sighs. He is more than ready to stop schmoozing the pair of Neanderthals and get on with killing them. He’s felt playing nice has really been beneath him – beneath all of them – even if that’s not been his call to make. As Dean Winchester continues to mock his life-honed, tried and true skills, Ketch allows himself to relax as he thinks about how he’s going to use those same talents on the brothers, tuning out somewhat while he remains the subject of their tedious conversation. He replaces his cup on its saucer and turns to his computer, settling in to listen to their menial droning in the event something may be learnt, hopefully more actionable than how long Sam and Dean can sit and drink in their appropriated library.

\---

 _“Another beer?”_ Sam’s question is punctuated by the sound of his empty bottle gently striking the wooden surface. 

Dean hums low and approving before he answers, his voice a quiet rumble. _“Sure.”_

There are shuffling sounds as Sam stands and Ketch knows he’s going for the mini-fridge they keep close by. Ketch leans back in his chair and eyes his own empty cup. He’s been contemplating a refill but the lights are dim in the conference room on the other side of the glass, an indication that he’s essentially on his own in this part of the compound. It is late, and even Mick’s – _his_ now, he supposes ruefully – office is lit only by a single desk lamp. Perhaps he should opt for something a little stronger. 

He reaches for the bottom drawer on his left, collecting a crystal tumbler and the mostly full bottle of Scotch stashed within it. He hears the clink when Sam and Dean must tap the necks of their newly replenished bottles together as he pours.

 _“How’s your head?”_ Sam asks, and he sounds a little tentative. Ketch hasn’t heard him sit down yet. _“Did– did you want some more ice?”_

 _“Nah, it’s not so bad now,”_ Dean answers, groaning a little as he shifts in his chair. _“This’ll do fine.”_

Ketch can practically hear Dean wink as he no doubt gestures to the beer in his hand, maybe even presses the cool glass to his forehead. Sam lets out a small laugh. There’s a silence that follows that feels somehow weighted, just a few beats, the sounds of two bottles finding their way to the table, and then– 

_“Sam, what–?”_

_“Just– let me–”_

The brothers speak over each other, cutting each other off, and in the moment that follows there’s nothing. Ketch sips his Scotch and listens absentmindedly, only because the transmission is the only sound in his otherwise silent office. The quiet doesn’t last long though, broken by a long, low moan that catches Ketch’s attention. 

_“Sammy,”_ Dean exhales roughly. _“You tryin’ to seduce me, little brother?”_

Ketch’s eyebrows had raised inquisitively at the sound, but now they narrow as he tries to discern some possible meaning to Dean’s question. There’s something – a _tone_ – to Dean’s voice, the way he says “little brother,” that puts Ketch immediately on edge.

 _“No, I just– thought maybe–”_ Sam sputters through the words, sounds a little flustered even, and Ketch finds himself leaning forward, putting down his tumbler and listening more intently. 

_“I ain’t complainin’,”_ Dean jumps in quickly. _“When was the last time you let loose with the masseuse hands like this?”_

There’s a playful lilt to Dean’s question, like he’s teasing, and while Ketch can infer from this what is going on now – that Sam must be massaging Dean’s shoulders, standing behind him – he still feels vaguely unnerved.

_“When was the last time you got beat to hell by an old world god, locked in an industrial meat freezer, and then almost– I mean, if– if I was even a moment later, you…”_

Sam trails off, and there’s something vulnerable in the broken, waiver of his voice. Ketch supposes a close call could be emotional perhaps, were he the kind of person to feel such things, but the Winchesters have died countless times, so the tremor he hears in Sam’s words is surprising. 

_“Hey,”_ Dean starts, and in that one word his voice is more gentle than Ketch has ever heard it. _“Sammy, c’mon. I’m fine. Still kickin’, thanks to you and the Colt.”_

Ketch glares at the mention of the gun, irritated that for all their searching in the bunker, the bastards did, indeed, have it on them the whole while. 

Sam doesn’t answer and the silence lingers. Dean sighs then but it’s not annoyed or even resigned. There’s a telltale scraping as Dean pushes his chair back and shuffling as he stands.

 _“Come here,”_ Dean coaxes, his voice still startlingly affectionate. There’s feet moving on the floor – Sam’s – and a soft _whump_. They’re– they must be… embracing? Ketch’s eyes are still narrowed as he reaches for his Scotch, taking another generous swig. _Americans_ , he thinks with mild disdain, stifling a shudder. They’re so… _touchy_. 

Moving to set his glass back down, Ketch finds himself listening for them to part, an unsettled feeling still worming its way into his thoughts, but instead he hears something else. A low hum, barely there, and sounds of subtle shifting. Next, there’s a distinct sound, an almost wet, smacking noise– 

Ketch freezes in place, his tumbler halfway between his mouth and his desk. He knows what it _sounds_ like, but that can’t be right– 

_“Dean,”_ Sam gasps. Dean chuckles and it’s somehow dark. It’s unmistakably suggestive and Ketch is on edge again, that uneasy feeling growing rapidly in the pit of his stomach because everything about this is definitely, unavoidably _off_.

 _“What do you need, Sammy, huh?”_ Dean is teasing him now, and the words are muffled as though– as though they’re spoken against skin, and they’re separated by kisses. 

Ketch can’t pretend now that something else is happening. It’s repulsive in its wrongness but his blood still pumps faster in his veins, louder in his ears. It's a word he knows applies to some of his less-standard appetites, no stranger to what other people usual shy away from. His mouth has gone a little dry and he swallows thickly, bringing the Scotch back to his mouth to down the rest of it in a wasteful hurry.

 _“Just you, Dean, please,”_ Sam pleads with unmasked desperation. They’re kissing again, Ketch can tell from the sounds: cut off, panting breaths, satisfied, near-hungry sounds from Dean, and whimpers from Sam that Ketch wouldn't believe the giant man capable of if he weren’t hearing them with his own ears. 

This turn of events is wholly unexpected, truly shocking, and yet Ketch somehow is less surprised than he thinks he should be. On top of everything else, these _insufferable_ brothers, the thorns in the side of this entire operation, are bloody _incestuous_! They really are even more supremely messed up than Ketch dared to imagine. Maybe Toni had a point– not that he’d ever admit that to her. None of that matters now anyway; Dr. Hess has given her orders, and in the meantime, Ketch pours himself another glass of Scotch with no intention of denying himself the singularly twisted pleasure of overhearing this truly salacious moment he was never intended to hear. 

Both men always seemed like creatures of few words to Ketch, but he’s beginning to reevaluate that assessment. Clearly, they really just aren’t fond of him in particular. They’re making plenty of noise now, whining and grunting as they clearly push and pull at each other against the table in the library. 

_“Fuck, Sam–”_ Dean groans. _“So hard for me, baby boy. I should get beat up more often.”_

Dean chuckles but Sam cries out, an anguished mix of obvious pleasure at something Dean is doing while not appreciating Dean’s joke.

 _“I’m kidding, Sam, Jesus. But fuck– you get so riled up. You’re killing me. So desperate to know I’m still here, you still got me. Is that it, Sammy?”_ Dean practically growls the words, low and muted so Ketch imagines them spoken against the long length of Sam’s throat, maybe Dean’s teeth dragging along the delicate skin. He sips slowly at his Scotch, savouring the burn and the way Dean’s ferocity speaks to his own animal, twisting that once uneasy feeling into something hotter. 

_“Thought– I thought I lost you again,”_ Sam stutters out around gasping breaths, and there’s more shuffling, more movement as they change positions, and then the clinking of someone’s belt buckle. Ketch sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and lets his legs open a little wider under his desk. 

_“Not this time, little brother. C’mon, that’s it, up on the table, sweetheart. On your back. We’re gonna do this right here,”_ Dean rambles as he directs Sam’s movements. Two _schluff-clunks_ as both of Sam’s boots hit the floor, followed by the sound of what must be his pants – or more – getting added to the pile. _“Spread ‘em, Sammy, fuck yeah.”_

 

Dean sounds nearly as wrecked as Sam now, and as Ketch closes his eyes, the fingers of one hand absentmindedly stroking the rim of his glass on the desk, he can only imagine the picture they make: Sam naked on his back on the table, ass right on the edge, knees wide and back to make both room and a view for his big brother. There are the unmistakable sounds of smacking lips, and in his mind Ketch can picture Dean, still fully clothed, rough denim against Sam’s bare ass as he leans over to kiss him hard and breathless. 

Ketch opens his eyes lazily at the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and he raises an eyebrow at Dean’s hissed “shit.”

_“Dean, what–?”_

_“The lube, Sam. Where– fuck, right. So mom wouldn’t find it. Goddammit.”_

It sounds as though Dean starts to move but he doesn’t get far.

 _“Dean, don’t! Please, don’t. You can’t– can’t leave me. Please, need you– need you so bad. Just– I can take it, okay? I can take it.”_

Ketch grins where he sits and lets the reckless, begging desperation of Sam Winchester’s perverted need for his brother wash over him in hot, shivery waves, his own cock trapped against his leg, aching and neglected. This thing between them is obviously long established, and only recently something they’ve had to hide from their mother with her miraculous return. Ketch gets a filthy thrill thinking about them having to hide it from her, imagines what would happen if she were to find out, discover what her boys have been getting up to in her absence. It’s all so absolutely _delicious_.  
Dean groans and brings Ketch’s attention back to the present, their current dilemma. 

_“God, I know you can, Sam. I know, but– shit, don’t wanna hurt you. Not gonna fuck you dry no matter how pretty you beg, baby. Open up for me now, that’s it, fuck. Suck on ‘em, good boy,”_ Dean practically purrs, and Sam is still whimpering underneath the filthy wet sounds he makes while he must be sucking on Dean’s fingers. The sounds get longer and a little strained; Ketch can see it in his mind, Dean pinning Sam’s tongue down, forcing his mouth open while he whines for him. He sighs quietly, small and a little ragged, high off the sounds.

A small gasp when Dean must decide they’re wet enough, then another – sharper – when those thick, rough fingers must be pressing into his little brother. Sam’s audible intake of breath turns quickly into a long, low moan, echoed by one from Dean. Ketch’s dick twitches against his leg, and he resists the impulse to touch himself, forcefully gripping the glass on the desk with one hand and making a tight fist with the other where it sets on his thigh. 

_“Aw, Sammy, shit– you’re so tight. Gotta loosen you up, kiddo. Relax, that’s it,”_ Dean’s voice is gentle again, low and encouraging. Sam sounds like he can barely string two words together – sighing broken iterations of his brother’s name around equally broken, tiny moans – and Ketch can swear he can almost hear the rhythm of Dean’s fingers fucking into him in the way his breath keeps catching. Ketch wonders how many he’s got in there. They haven’t been at it too long but the desperation between them is palpable and the way Sam is carrying on, it can’t just be the one. 

_“More Dean, please, it’s not– not enough, please,”_ Sam pleads and Dean groans but it turns almost into a growl.

 _“Sam, fuck– such a slut for me, baby. So fuckin’ needy–”_ Dean must deliver, another or maybe two fingers, because Sam cries out abruptly and Dean’s monologue changes just as fast. _“Aw, Sammy, shh, so good, baby. Easy, easy now.”_

His voice is hushed and then he’s kissing Sam again through his brother’s whimpers. Soft, slurping sounds of their lips together and Sam’s short, aborted gasps as he adjusts to the increased intrusion. Sam finally sighs and it’s from pleasure, not pain, punctuated by a final kiss as Dean must stand back up and starts to move his fingers again in earnest. 

_“God, look at you. So fuckin’ hot, little brother. Takin’ my fingers like that, your pretty dick leaking for me. Get so wet for me, Sammy, shit–”_

Sam keens and it becomes clear from the sliding, unmistakable sound that Dean has his other hand on Sam’s dick, starting to jack him even while his fingers are still buried knuckle-deep in Sam’s ass.

 _“De-Dean,”_ Sam stutters out, desperately sucking in air. Even Ketch can tell he must be close, brought to the edge by Dean’s fingers no doubt petting his prostate and now the hand on his dripping cock. Ketch’s _aches_ where he still ignores it, swimming in the near-overwhelming waves of arousal that this perverted, illicit scene is sending through his body from head to toe. His own face feels unbearably warm, and he unclenches his fist enough to reach up and loosen his tie, tug it down some, and undo the tightest button at his collar.  
_“So good for me, Sammy. Want you to give it up now, get you all loose, and let me use it to fuck you, yeah? Gonna fuck you so hard. C’mon, come for me little brother.”_

The sound Sam makes as his orgasm takes him is like nothing Ketch has ever heard. The sharp spike of _want_ that hits him as he listens is so strong he can’t help but groan aloud in the thankfully darkened, lonely recess of his office. He’s panting now himself, high and harsh, while Sam shudders and comes down.

 _“Yeah, Sam, shit– look at this mess. Came so hard for me, so good, baby boy. Gonna– gonna fuck you now, hold– hold ‘em back, that’s it,”_ Dean directs quietly, and there’s a desperate edge in his voice. He sounds wrecked – Ketch doesn’t blame him; he’s not even there and he’s about to burst out of his skin – and there’s no way this is going to last long. 

There are wet noises and Ketch imagines Dean is wiping up and collecting all his brother’s release; the clinking of a belt buckle and a zipper as Dean finally frees his dick; the familiar, slick sounds as he undoubtedly coats it with Sam’s come and gives it a few tugs before lining up at his brother’s hole. 

_“Dean, please,”_ Sam pants. _“Don’t tease. Need you– need you so bad. F–Fill me up, please, Dean.”_

_“You got me, baby. Always have me, never gonna leave you, Sam–”_

He must be pushing inside now because both of them lose their words. There’s one painfully quiet moment and then they’re both groaning as Dean bottoms out. The noises they make get muffled as they kiss, and then they break apart. He must be standing up now, the leverage necessary for the now harsh pace of his thrusts. Ketch’s hips twitch, itching to move in an echo, and he’s burning up, his cock like a brand against his leg.

 _“Sam– Sammy, I– not gonna last– you feel too good,”_ Dean sounds strained, the task of speaking more than the stream of matching _uh-uh-uhs_ he’s punching out of both of them a difficult one. His words shake with the force of his movement, in time to the loud _slap-slap_ of their bodies coming together.

 _“Yeah, Dean. Fuck– harder, please. C’mon, need to feel you inside me–”_ Sam is the one encouraging now, and Dean moans to frame his speech. It sounds as though his hips get impossibly faster, harsher, and then Dean cries out Sam’s name, long and broken, his hips stuttering now, losing any rhythm and slowing. Ketch’s heart pounds like thunder in his ears and he can barely catch his breath. He can’t sit still as he listens to Dean’s frantic, panting gasps, and rubs his hands aggressively up and down the length of his thighs, obstinately refusing to touch himself.

Dean’s rough voice is muffled, and Ketch imagines him slumped forward, laying on Sam, his face buried in his neck. They’ve got to be dripping sweat, both of them; Ketch is perspiring himself. All he can hear for a while is their breathing as it evens out, in time to one another. They must stay like that a long time, Dean possibly crushing Sam to the table – not that he’s said anything to indicate he minds – and Ketch is still achingly hard, but his own heart rate has slowed somewhat, too.

 _“Still with me, Dean?”_ Sam finally breaks the silence, with just a whisper and a hint of playfulness. Dean grunts in answer, still muffled, and Sam laughs a little.

 _“Told you, Sammy. I’m always with you,”_ Dean answers languidly a moment later, his voice getting louder as he sits up at least somewhat. He kisses Sam then, and one or both of them hums into it. _“I’m fuckin’ beat, though. Time for bed, Sasquatch, c’mon.”_

Sam laughs again and Ketch blinks at how seamlessly they switched to what feels like normal banter– if anything between the brothers can be considered _normal_ , that is. 

There’s different kinds of groans as they stand up, pull apart, and a noticeable one the moment Dean must slide out of him. Ketch’s throat is tight and his mouth still horribly dry. As the brothers collect themselves, Ketch pours himself another Scotch with subtly shaking hands, and he sips at it as slowly as he can manage. 

There are quiet words spoken between them now, and Ketch imagines that they’re leaning on one another as they head toward a room they most certainly share, Sam’s clothes abandoned still on the library floor. Silence fills the transmission as they move out of range and Ketch is frozen a moment, debating. He could turn this over – it’s not exactly useful intel but surely it would be the final nail in the brothers’ coffins – but then… It’s not every day one stumbles across something so exquisitely sick. 

He downs the rest of his Scotch and sets the empty tumbler down as he makes up his mind. He takes the USB key out of the recorder, replacing it with another, and pockets the other for himself, then makes for his private quarters as quickly and discreetly as he can, his dick still a painful, obvious bulge behind the tailored wool of his slacks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping by! Comments and kudos are love ❤️


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